Dead Once Again
by editorbit
Summary: Jerome is dead, once again.


Jerome is dead, once again.

This time he apparently fell off a building, contrary to a knife to the neck like last time. Unlike last time, this time it's Jerome's doing. According to the news anchor Jeremiah currently has his eyes fixated on - barely letting himself blink - he let go and let himself fall right to his death. Jeremiah watches as the person on the screen continues, stating some warning about the images they're about to show, but he isn't listening anymore. The words are nothing but background noise, serving no meaning.

Right there on the screen is Jerome's dead body. It's filmed from too far away to see much, but Jeremiah immediately recognises him. The suit, the red hair and the white gloves. That's Jerome alright, the same one he'd seen eye to eye what felt like ages ago now. The same one with a gun pointed at him. The same one he'd kept trapped in a cell in his - which he had assumed was safe and impenetrable - maze. The same one that had escaped and had now gotten himself killed.

It's like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. He feels light, like he's on the moon. The feeling's familiar, but different. This feeling seems more... like it's going to stay, like this is what he's meant to feel like. Jeremiah concludes he likes this feeling. It feels easier to breathe, easier to move, easier to live. He can get used to this feeling. This feeling of freedom. Hopefully it stays, though he's fairly sure it will.

When he's seemed to have snapped out of his deep thinking, the image of the scene Jeremiah is sure will never leave his mind is gone from the screen, replaced with the news anchor, he's out the door. Subconsciously he's decided where he's going, his feet moving on their own as if on autopilot. There's a barely noticeable, yet existing, spring in his step and with light, fairly quick steps he walks down the streets, street after street disappearing behind him. His hands are in his pockets and there's a faint, if not a smile, at least some sort of pleased expression on his face.

An unknown amount of time passes before he's there, Jeremiah too caught up to notice the time. Time almost ceases to exist. Has it been ten minutes? Thirty? An hour? If it weren't for the now numb tip of his nose and the faint pink colour spreading across his cheeks like blush after being out in the cold evening air, he might have thought barely any time has passed at all.

His surroundings seem to disappear as soon as he sees him. He sees the car and soon after, Jerome. His steps, previously quick and almost carefree, slow down and are borderline hesitant as he nears the body. He'd been filled with so much energy just a while ago and now it seems to drain out of him more and more the closer he gets. The weight on his shoulders is gone still, but replaced with something different. His chest doesn't seem to move as normal, lungs not filling up completely and muscles all of the sudden seem much more tense.

Jerome looks different, yet familiar. His skin's ever so slightly paler, his eyes are wide open and no sign of movement is to be seen, but there's a smile on his face. Just like last time, though this one more intense due to the way his face had healed.

A wave of an odd emotion runs through him, like a breeze, but inside his chest. It's a concoction of different emotions, some recognisable, while others not. There's a hint of relief, happiness, serenity and contentment, among plenty of others, yet there's another emotion that seems to shine through, much unlike last time. Jeremiah recognises it as grief, but pushes the thought away.

What does he have to grieve over? This isn't his mother's murder, his fish's death back when he was barely a teen or some dear friend he's just lost. This is Jerome.

He walks closer, hand pulled out of his pocket to rub his eyes in what he tells himself is an attempt to get rid of the eyelash touching his eye, and almost steps on something on the street in front of him. It's tiny and he barely notices it. Adjusting his glasses he picks it up, eyes barely leaving his brother's dead body.

It's dark out and it's difficult to see, but he manages, the light from the street lamps casting a faint light over what he's holding. It's enough to make out what it is, as well as what it says.

Just some metres from the car holding Jerome's body, right in front of Jeremiah's shoes, was a chapstick. Strawberry, it reads. If anyone asked, he'd deny the hint of a weak smile that forms. He'd throw the thing away, but doesn't. It's Jerome's. It was Jerome's. He's sure if it. He should throw it away anyway, but doesn't. He can't bring himself to let go of the little tube and throw it away, throw it into the bin just across the road, drop it back where he found it in the first place, drop it anywhere really. It doesn't feel right.

So he keeps it. He shoves his hands back into his pockets and leaves.


End file.
